the smell of pre-pubescent boy has now permeated most of the rest of the crib. Between it and the orange oil I used on my desk, I’m thinking I’m pretty sure I’d rather smell catbox at this point. (I would NOT rather smell pew-tchouli, however. That’s just gross.)

Happily, Poppy and the Peapod are picking me up for lunch and shopping momentarily, so maybe either the stench will be gone or the boys will do enough bidness to kill it. Plus, I’ve already been promised a ride on the giant carousel. Take THAT, office people!

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
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Caterina said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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